A Dying Flame
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: Post HBP. Spoilers. Oneshot. Draco remains in captivity as the war surges forth. He explores his thoughts and contemplates how he became so lost, much like his father. He faces a choice, but his dying soul has become apathetic.


_**A/N:** This is perhaps the darkest thing I've written to date. I remain uncertain of whether or not it is to my liking. I figured, what could it hurt to go ahead and post it? I welcome constructive criticism, but flames will not fly. R/R._

* * *

**A Dying Flame**

**_-_**

_In darkness there is no sin  
Light only brings in fear  
Nothing to corrupt the eyes  
There is no vision here_

_**Black Out – Alkaline Trio**_

**_-_**

_This impending doom is left deep inside  
And it's haunting you each and every night  
Like starving wolves counting sheep  
We close our eyes, pretending to sleep, descending  
Like hell we are anxiously waiting  
Like hell burning silently strong  
Somehow we fell down by the wayside  
Somehow this hell is home _

_**Burn – Alkaline Trio**_

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The weather had been decently unpleasant since the end of the latest Hogwarts term. Thunder rumbled dangerously through the sky, occasionally mistaken to be an intruder to those most paranoid. Lightening flashed far more frequently and far brighter than the sun had done as of late, incinerating countless numbers of trees and causing the streets to look bare. Dare say it—_dead_. Most remained locked up securely in their homes, terrified to reveal their faces to the world. The storms had not stopped for days, flooding the roads and casting a sense of dread throughout all of England. It was as if the sky was blanketed with endless clouds, perhaps even cursed to produce immense rainfall and gusts of wind that were strangely reminiscent of a Dementor's presence. Nothing had been the same since that one fateful day—it was as if that was the official statement of war, as all major threats had been eliminated. There were no longer any secrets, any sneaking suspicions—It had commenced.

Those of the Wizarding World were well aware of Voldemort's rapid rise to power once more and had begun to fear the worst, for the enlisted help of the man who once posed the biggest threat (excluding, of course, the luck of Harry Potter) to Voldemort had now gone. Albus Dumbledore had been murdered at the hands of his esteemed colleague, Severus Snape, who had grasped a young Draco Malfoy in tow as he fled the scene of the crime. A battle had ensued, resulting in a number of injuries and deaths that had begun to rival the previous war. Even the Muggles had noticed a sense of foreboding, though not being able to understand the concept in full. They, too, remained shut up in their homes, a sinking instinctive feeling telling them it was best to do so.

Occasionally, though often drown out by the thunder, engaging battles could be heard outside one's window. Aurors had been roaming the streets almost each night in exhausting pursuit of any rampant Death Eaters. It had once instilled hope in those who had been using their faith as a sole reason for living. It was a comforting thought, indeed, to consider that a protector was always nearby to drive evil away.

But weeks had gone by. At the beginning, one could glance out their windows to find a cloaked figure pacing the sidewalks in the downpour, careful not to let anything or anyone pass unannounced. Now it was fortunate to see one Auror in a week, much less each time wizards were to gaze outside. Most had been killed off, leaving an overpowering number of Death Eaters slipping in and out of the shadows, unpredictably acting with malice. No one could even be sure if Muggles had become involved yet, for Voldemort seemed now entirely apathetic about who saw him or who was punished for interfering in his plans. Anybody who got relatively in his way of success would perish, regardless of what race he or she was.

Some had come face to face with the fact that they may not survive. Others tried to remain optimistic, hoping for a hidden cavalry to come charging into battle when Voldemort was vulnerable. The prospects were disconcerting, causing hope to diminish and spirits to deflate in dejection. Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the entire situation was that none were sure what would come of the current state of England—though the battles had been raging unsuccessfully, there was also an eerie calm that had set amongst the Wizarding World's most respected members—suspicions had developed, making it difficult to trust one's neighbor or work partner.

Travel had become a rarity. The Floo Network had been shut down indefinitely, fearing that unwelcome guests would emerge into the homes of strangers and that the Network would be sabotaged. Travel by Portkey had also become an offense, for it had been discovered to be potentially dangerous since Barty Crouch Junior's successful attempt to envelope Harry Potter into a compromising situation. Apparation was one of the few options left, another being broom travel, though rarely used due to its lengthy process.

While most had _chosen_ not to leave their homes and shelters, others were being held forcibly against their wills. Those captured by the Dark Lord faced a very slim possibility of ever seeing daylight once again. He had been taking no mercy, scraping in all of those who had done him wrong recently—Then there were those who had done nothing, guilty only of being an object of his distaste.

Draco Malfoy, restrained by magical binding, remained securely trapped through all of this. Had he been asked of his whereabouts, he would have had no inkling of an answer. He had no idea where he was—he only knew that the darkness was reminiscent of a dungeon. The walls were made of cold, wet stone, subject to a leak that had occurred nearly a week ago. There was at least an inch of water pooling into a lake at his feet, sometimes sent into splashing ripples by the occasional rat traipsing past his toes. His shoes were soaked, his socks clinging wetly to his toes. And _how_ his feet itched…he knew they had swollen from pruning, his open pores causing bloating. If he could drown through his feet, he surely would have by now.

The only light provided to him was a torch on the far wall, dimly lit due to the moisture in the air. It would occasionally sizzle when dripped upon, causing a portion of the once-vigorous flame to burn out. Draco often used this flame as a metaphor of comparison to his current state. When first placed in this prison, he had expended all of his energy in a mighty struggle, kicking and screaming at the empty, echoing walls until his throat grew raw and his voice diminished. He had spoken every spell he knew, hoping to accomplish his goals with the absence of a wand. He had bitten at his bindings, ignoring the tiny shocks emitted into his mouth by the spell cast upon them, scratching at the stone walls until his nails were torn off and his fingertips bloody. His wrists were chafed and skinned, having struggled against the magical rope.

Eventually, his hope had dwindled, as did the burning flame of the torch. His stamina was in such recession that, in a barely conscious state of thought, he could hardly recollect how he had gotten here. Then, each time the memory came crashing upon him, he felt all the more distraught, wishing the scenario had never been regurgitated.

He remembered Dumbledore pleading with him, his blue irises sparkling with a trustworthy promise of protection as he offered to help him. Draco remembered hesitating, taken aback by Dumbledore's warm and welcoming eyes. His countenance spoke nothing of deception, reigning true—It was a bizarre feeling, witnessing for the first time an expression of consideration for him—Draco Malfoy—and it stunned him into silence as he stared this miracle in the face. Not even his own father had ever looked upon him with such loving conviction. And right then, for the first time in his life, he felt entirely uncertain of his standing in the Wizarding community. For once, he began to doubt that his path was the only path. All because of an old wizard donning half-moon spectacles.

His entire life suddenly ceased to make sense.

Draco's childhood years, which should have been dear and innocent, had been full of readings and training. Though he was far too young to practice magic before his Hogwarts letter had arrived, his father ensured that he read up on the most dangerous spells long before his arrival at school. His life had been Hell since the day he was born, though he had never quite noticed until this defining moment. As he stood, feet firmly planted on the ground, wand at-the-ready, _Avada Kedavra_ on the tip of his tongue, he finally began to realize what a waste of time his entire existence had been. He began to realize he needn't be this—_tired _and worn down in his sixth year. It finally occurred to him that he had reached the point where he teetered on the fence of obsession, just as his father had before him. His father's cold heart had ruined Draco's childhood, and he had secretly vowed to himself that he would never become as empty as his father had—He would certainly follow in his father's footsteps as a Death Eater and he would agree to the alienation of Mudbloods, but he would _never_ throw his life away for another being.

Dumbledore had offered to free him of that nightmare, and for the first time in sixteen years, Draco had felt obliged to ask for such help.

It had felt as though he and Dumbledore had maintained eye contact for endless hours before Snape had rushed to the scene. Draco's arms filled with goose-bumps as he re-visited the visualization of the color retreating from Albus's face, his expression frozen in shock, those blue eyes drained empty…

He felt confusion for the certain presence of sorrow that had overtaken him. He had never felt it before. It felt as though his heart had done a back flip—a sharp stinging began in the corners of his eyes as a very rare batch of tears began to form. He had almost had a way out. The chance had presented itself for him and his family to avoid this pain and suffering that had plagued them for decades. He could finally be rid of the man he hated so—the beast that his father had turned into upon hearing of and beginning to plan Voldemort's return. He may have finally seen a shadow of a smile graze his mother's once-beautiful features again, the pressure lifted from her of being the wife of a warrior and the mother of a trainee.

But it needn't matter now—Snape had uttered the deadliest spell of all and, roughly grabbing Draco's neck, had practically dragged him all the way off the grounds. Draco began to run only when Potter had shown up—the look of rage on Harry's face was astounding and as cowardly as it sounded, Draco had no desire to remain anywhere near. He had taken off running before Snape even needed to release the command.

He remembered running into the Forbidden Forest, branches whipping at his face, tears pouring down his cheeks. He didn't remember when the last time was that he had cried, and he felt annoyed at the presence of the guilt now. His muscles ached from the stress and strain he was exerting upon them and his eyes burned with the endless production of tears. He had collapsed beneath a particularly thick tree, his face buried in the forest floor. And there he lay, bawling like a baby, until Severus had returned.

Upon his arrival, Draco felt as though Snape faded into the darkness—his ebony hair and cloak blended into his background, the only visible feature being his face. He looked positively furious. Draco simply lay there, helpless, fighting against his tears to the best of his ability. Snape said nothing—he merely stared at Malfoy, his gaze tearing into the very pit of his soul.

Then all at once a wave of sheer pain enveloped the younger; it was as though his body had been punctured by a million daggers—his bones were shattering over and over again and his insides were being torn apart. He had cried out in terror and agony, begging for the torture to end. Snape had simply stared at him, mentally performing the curse and allowing it to hold until his satisfaction was obtained. When the pain stopped, he felt weak—the faster his heart beat, the harder his insides clanged together. And as he laid there, his face soaked with tears and sweat and caked with dirt, Snape spoke at last. A slow, careful drawl that rang in Draco's ears as cold and menacing.

"It was so easy."

The youngest Malfoy could do nothing but look up shamefully at his elder, his bottom lip trembling as the tears continued to pour down his face.

"Your father spent almost seventeen years training you to follow in his stead, should he cease to be a Death Eater for any reason. You've spent the _entire term_ calculating this moment. You stared that man in the face, your wand pointed directly at him…And here you are. Sniveling like an infant."

The tone in Snape's voice had begun to change, becoming slightly more seething. It felt as if the gradual crescendo would end in an explosion. It certainly seemed so, for his pale face, illuminated only by moonlight, showed that his mouth was tightly pressed shut. His nostrils flickered dangerously and his eyes provided an icy cold stare. And though a shadow would periodically fall over his features, his expression remained unmistakable.

"But I…He…" Draco sputtered pathetically, barely recognizing his own voice, for it sounded raspy and torn.

"Your father would be so disappointed in you."

Draco's heart had immediately plummeted into his stomach. That was perhaps the worst punishment of all. He had come as close as he ever would to facing the fact that Voldemort would most likely torture and kill him due to his failure. He would have been stupid not to realize that his classmates would never speak to him again, should he survive—he would never be allowed back to school and his grades would remain incomplete.

But the idea of his father delivering that cold look of abandonment was the very last thing Draco wanted. He had spent his entire life attempting to reach his father, succeeding only when it came to the time that he would act in his father's place. Visiting him in Azkaban, it seemed to be the sole occasion that Draco felt any sense of pride emanating from his father. It was perhaps the only time his father had ever cracked his lips into a wry smile when his son was around. His smile was devoid of warmth and comfort, two typical essentials by definition—it was merely the physical action of his mouth curling upwards and that alone—but it was the closest Draco had yet come to seeing Lucius look at all impressed.

Draco had been so young when Lucius had left to trace the Dark Lord. The elder had been gone for weeks, only to return home with scars and bruises, remaining locked in his study for nearly ten long years to follow—until Draco's fourth year when the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named once again rose and his father regained his position.

"He's the greatest Wizard there ever was," Draco remembered his father drawling, having begun the recitation the moment his toddler was capable of understanding words. "And he's due to come back any day. And when he does, he wants you to help him. And shall you opt not to do so, I will no longer consider you any son of mine."

"I knew you didn't have it in you," Snape had sneered, an eerie, sadistic smile playing across his lips. "Whatever shall the Dark Lord say when he finds out?"

Draco's previous attempts to be strong had all but collapsed as his trembling elbows lowered him back to the ground, continuing to sob in agony. He was a sixteen year old slave, facing the notion of certain death as a consequence for his failure to act. _No teenager deserves this,_ he remembered himself thinking months ago, though the thought had passed fleetingly back into his unconscious. The severity of his actions was beginning to play into reality—what would happen to his family? Surely Voldemort would not allow the Malfoys to live after this close call.

He was not ready to die.

"Come!" Snape commanded, grabbing Draco by the scruff of the neck once again and dragging him deeper into the forest, far away from the now-distant battle raging through the echoing night sky. He dragged him through the dirt until the point of apparation had been reached, Draco's nails sliding across the ground, caked mud nearly reaching his cuticles.

"I shall decide what will be done with you later—I have more important things to consider at the moment," Voldemort had casually stated once Snape had returned the traitor, and with a dismissing wave of his hand and a mumbled spell, Draco had been knocked out and placed in his current location. His spirit had quickly dwindled, as did his hope—and here he was, helplessly hanging by his wrists.

A strange sense of apathy had settled upon him. Almost immediately following his and Voldemort's meeting, an order had been sent out to do away with his parents. He would not have believed such a rumor had it not been for the assigned Death Eater returning with his father's beloved cane and his mother's wedding band. The two possessions would have never left their sights otherwise. His heart had broken and his grief increased, though he did not cry—he had not cried since he had awoken. His body was far too weak and his soul was irreparably stripped. It mattered not, for he would, in the end, be killed as well.

He was well aware of Voldemort's current project and of his desire to punish Draco for his wrong-doings before sending him away permanently. He was meticulously biding his time. Morbidly enough, it had not quite worked to Voldemort's advantage—rather than use the captive time to stew over all of the horrifying possibilities, Malfoy had simply begun to wish for death. He yearned for Voldemort or another minion to traipse down the stairs and whisper the dangerous spell. He welcomed the end of all of this—of feeling all of the guilt come rushing in with such fervor. He had made his own bed and was prepared to lie in it, however regretful of his choices he was.

Draco stared at the far wall, his gaze concentrating distractedly on the flicker of a flame that remained of his torch. Fighting to ignore how cold he had suddenly become, he turned over the notion in his mind of where he could be in place of this desolate prison. Had he not fixed the cabinet in Borgin and Burke's…Had he not paid such heed to his father's lessons. His marks had been decent and his life had been laid out neatly in front of him. A shadow of an alternative future had been lingering nearby, and more than ever now he regretted ignoring the logical path. He was bent on being a hero for the dark side and living up to his father's reputation. Lucius would have been proud to die for the Dark Lord. But somehow, he had never imagined it would end like this.

His remaining pride still prevented him from wishing to be saved, however—Had Potter shown up to rescue him, he would have spit in his face.

If the young near-sighted hero had even the slightest desire to give him a second thought.

Draco hung his head dejectedly, staring absent-mindedly at the puddle surrounding his feet. It had grown in recent hours, now submerging his shoe entirely. He paid no mind to the rat that skittered past, for he had become accustomed to the frequent passing of rodents.

He did, however, find himself somewhat shaken by the eerie smile that played across the rat's face. Suddenly it began to lose its shape, assuming that of an aging man. It was bizarre the way this man had retained certain characteristics from the rat, such as the shape of his two front teeth and the watery, beady eyes. The translation of the traits was unmistakable. His balding head, also, gave harbor to a few small patches of stringy gray hair. There stood Peter Pettigrew, Voldemort's most trusted servant, an unregistered animagi.

"Oh," Draco grunted, his voice unrecognizable. "It's only you."

"No warm welcome?" Wormtail ventured sarcastically, an evil chuckle rumbling in his throat. "You would think you would be grateful to see a new face. Or rather…A face at all."

"I actually enjoy the time I have to myself," Malfoy countered with feigned bravado. "But it's suddenly been interrupted by a great git such as yourself."

"I would be more careful if I were you," Peter warned, gripping his wand tighter in his metallic palm.

Draco scoffed bitterly. "Or what? You'll kill me?" He felt his brow produce a sweat at the very notion, however chose to ignore the fright. He was beginning to feel more pathetic by the second. "I've an idea that that's already going to happen eventually, so your threat holds no clout."

"But would you not like to hear what you've missed while you were away?" he questioned, choosing to ignore Malfoy's statement of the obvious. His light-hearted expression had sunk gradually into a serious countenance as he traced Malfoy's Adam's apple with the tip of his wand. "We're winning, you know. And it's all thanks to you. Well…sort of," he added callously, rolling his eyes in reference to Malfoy's sudden change of heart.

Malfoy gulped silently, admittedly surprised by the newfound leap of hope clenching at his heart. The dark side was winning—But what if the Order of the Phoenix had yet to reveal its biggest plan? Surely they had more schemes to utilize in the face of bigger battles. Of course, they simply must have been biding their time…Letting Voldemort bask in a state of naïve triumph before coming down on him as hard as ever. They must…They must…

But somewhere deep down Draco knew his faith was in vain. He knew how long Voldemort had been calculating for that particular battle waged against Dumbledore. He was well aware of how much careful planning had gone into the invasion and how many had been recruited and well trained to fight for his glory. It was not a far stretch to entertain the notion of the Dark Lord winning his current battle. It was, in fact, entirely realistic.

"Harry Potter has just been killed," Wormtail announced excitedly, a sadistic smile yet again grazing his purple lips. "The Dark Lord is so pleased."

All previous hope had suddenly shattered. Malfoy's heart fell once again into the pit of his stomach, and for the first time in weeks, he felt his eyes begin to well up with tears.

"No more Potters will ever stand in the way of our Lord ever again. He has defeated all of those who opposed him most strongly. And now he is free to rule as he wishes—it's only a matter of time before all others give in. They will have no other choice, for their shot at victory has been swallowed. They face either loyalty or death. Which would you choose, young Malfoy, in such a situation?"

A small tear rolled down his cheek and dripped from his chin. Draco Malfoy may have once said that he would rather pledge loyalty than death. He now, however, felt a surge of bravery that insisted upon living for his own values or not living at all.

"I would have thought you would be more pleased to hear such news," Wormtail cooed mockingly, another cackle escaping his throat. "I was under the impression that you loathed Potter to the extent of death."

"I once thought so," Malfoy breathed quietly, uncertain as to why he was speaking such private thoughts aloud. "But those were my father's thoughts instilled in me. They were not my own."

"Astute young man," Peter muttered sarcastically. "It's a shame that you've changed your mind so rapidly, for it will result in your own demise." His wand tip suddenly came to a halt at Malfoy's chest, pointed directly at his heart.

"Our Lord can no longer have any distractions," he began hauntingly, pressing harder into Malfoy's breast with every word he spoke. "He can no longer attend to meaningless matters."

Draco's heart skipped a beat, but did no more. He had been expecting—hoping for—this day to come for weeks. He had no qualms of the matter any longer, simply knowing that it was a better fate than living his life in servitude.

He had held his father in high esteem and had indeed agreed with many of his father's thoughts.

But he refused to live his life to please another.

As Wormtail adjusted his firm grip on his wand in preparation, Malfoy said nothing.

"Parting thoughts?" Wormtail whispered dangerously, his facing getting ever closer to Malfoy's. He could feel his hot breath brushing across his cold cheek, though the warmth oddly made him feel ever-more frozen.

Malfoy took in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, feeling one last tear cascade down his jaw bone. The adrenaline had come to a conclusion and his heart, for once, assumed the most normal rhythm it had experienced in months. His body relaxed instinctively and he felt, oddly enough, at peace.

He smiled bitterly. And dark though it was, it was the first true smile he had perhaps ever shown in his life. It was a gesture that his father could have never duplicated, the tragic old man.

He then parted his lips, knowing full well that these few breaths would be his last.

"Go to Hell," he hissed.

A beam of green light erupted from the tip of Wormtail's wand and the chamber became pitch black with a single sizzle.

The torch had burned out.

_**A/N:** Liked it? R/R and please check out some of my most recent works: _

_**Are You Ready For What's To Come?** - A romantic drama: Harry and Ginny have become engaged, but have yet to solve Ron and Hermione's year-long spat before the wedding. Peace must be made, but will be put on hold in order to deal with the struggle against an enemy. _

_**Your Secret's Safe With Me** - Drama: Remus feels that he no longer holds the strength to keep his dangerous secret from his friends. He fears that when they find out, they will be all-the-more ashamed. _

_**What Is Real, Or Just A Dream** - Drama: Post-OOTP. Remus Lupin and Harry mourn the loss of a close friend, each reminiscing about their pasts with their companion._


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